


among inked flowers

by vwritesaus



Series: BokuAka Week 2020 [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: ??? idk what else to put here, Ambiguous/Open Ending, BokuAka Week 2020, Bokuto Koutarou in Love, Bokuto is in love, Fluff, Longing, M/M, Mild Language, Pining, it's just lovestruck Bokuto and clueless Akaashi really, wingman Konoha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25701433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vwritesaus/pseuds/vwritesaus
Summary: Today’s the day,he thinks.I’m gonna ask him what his name is.In which Bokuto is head over heels for the handsome tattoo artist who visits his flower shop regularly and is too scared to ask for his name.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Bokuto Koutarou & Konoha Akinori
Series: BokuAka Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857256
Comments: 7
Kudos: 61





	among inked flowers

**Author's Note:**

> this is late, but did you really think i'd miss the opportunity to push forward my tattoo artist Akaashi agenda? i actually really love this au and i should write more for it, but tada, here is day 3's prompt of florist/tattoo shop for bokuaka week! i'll do my best in delivering some more smol fics during the week, but have a lovestruck, nervous Bokuto for now 
> 
> ty again to [melly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosevtea/) for beta reading <3

Bokuto knows he has the best job in the world. Nothing beats coming in at six in the morning to the smell of fresh flowers, their colourful heads turning to the first light of the day as it spills into the shop. He’s aware of all their favourite spots: pansies like the front corner behind the display window, enjoying the sun during the day and cooling off in the late afternoon shade; succulents are tricky, but they thrive best behind the large glass plane, peeking out from the sheer curtain that Konoha insisted on having as a decoration; peacock plants sit comfortably on the counter, and if they could sing, Bokuto knows they would be filling the entire space with their pretty voices as they soak up the natural light (Bokuto makes sure to keep a little spray bottle nearby because these babies _love_ damp soil).

It’s an interesting job, and not just because of the variety of flowers: the shop attracts all sorts, coming in to acquire that perfect plant. Bokuto’s seen them all: exes trying to fix things with a dozen roses; husbands wanting to surprise their wives with potted carnations; high school girls eyeing the individually wrapped gerberas in light of a friend’s birthday; brides-to-be hunting down the ideal bouquet; designers looking for a light touch of sophistication for a centrepiece; and university students attempting this thing called “being an adult” by purchasing their very first plant (Bokuto’s always sure to recommend them a fully grown cast-iron).

Adhering to customers’ needs is what Bokuto does best. He can talk their ears off about soil types and how moist they should be for a particular species, maintaining them and the right way to prune overgrown leaves, and what colours go best with each other for bouquets. So far, no customer has walked away or returned unsatisfied, and if anything, those who return to buy the same plants again do so with a sheepish façade, as if afraid of disappointing Bokuto.

(And because of this, he’s clearly the favourite out of himself and Konoha, a title he’ll gladly take with both hands and a bow.)

Customer service in their little shop is easy and flawless. However, there is always an exception: Konoha makes fun of him for it but he becomes tongue-tied with only one customer.

Bokuto doesn’t know when it started exactly, but the natural reaction upon seeing this specific man enter the shop has formed into an odd mixture of reverence and mild fear: the kind one reserves for the title _he’s way out of my league._ Bokuto does not allow for a paper tag labelled “coward” to be pegged on the line of traits that make up his character, but it flutters dangerously close whenever he catches that head of dark, curled hair amongst multi-coloured petals.

It’s no different today when, upon returning to the counter from the back with budding strawberry sprouts in his arms, he identifies that tall, dark-haired man loitering near the display window. He’s become a regular, coming into the shop and purchasing a plant at least two to three times a month for the better half of a year. During that time, not once has Bokuto found the courage to ask for his name, or to say anything beyond a stuttered _hello, how are you?_ and _thank you, please come again!_

The courage has, instead, been manifested through shameless, longing gazes through the shop window, watching this man enter and leave the tattoo parlour across the road each day. Bokuto can admire him from the safe interior of the shop, through hanging ivy and nodding violets; can revel in that tall frame and curled hair without getting caught; can appreciate the confidence lining his skin in bright blues and greens, dormant birds coming to life through ink on tan skin. Bokuto wonders if he’d drawn them himself, what kind of customers he gets on a daily basis, and if he’ll ever cross the road and say _hi, I’d like to get my first tattoo from the handsome guy who keeps coming into my shop._

He sighs at the thought. _As if._

For such an exuberant person, it’s honestly quite a tragic circumstance—so much so that it has evolved into Konoha threatening to ask the man for his name himself. Bokuto doesn’t want Konoha doing that because he knows it will end with _I’m asking for my dumb friend over there_ paired with an aggressive jut of his thumb over his shoulder, and Bokuto dying behind the counter in embarrassment. 

If he’s going to embarrass himself, he’ll do it on his own. So as Bokuto gently places the strawberry sprouts on the counter, he sucks in a breath and lightly drums his fingertips against the surface.

_Today’s the day,_ he thinks. _I’m gonna ask him what his name is._

With that, Bokuto seeks out the dark-haired man. He spots him by the edge of the display window, curls crowned by a shelf of orange daises. Bokuto can feel Konoha’s disapproving gaze from behind him, and can almost hear his soundless thought of _just fucking do it, you idiot—or_ I _will_. It sends a shudder down his entire spine, licking under his skin like a restless snake.

He can do this. Yes… he can do this.

But the second the man’s eyes lock with his, a polite smile and small bow aimed his way, Bokuto knows it’s over. 

He can’t do this.

There’s no way.

Next thing he knows is a palm being smacked between his shoulder blades and a voice hissing in his ear, ‘For god’s sake, go ask if he needs help with something—’ before he’s being pushed beyond the counter and towards the tray of petunias lining the table by the greeting cards. Bokuto catches the man’s curious eyebrow and feels his heart hit the floor.

This is going _terribly_. He’s probably thinking _god, what an idiot_ and Bokuto bristles at the idea and shoves it aside and says loudly, ‘Hey! Can I help ya with anything?’

First victory: he didn’t stutter. His heart does, however, when the man’s expression moulds into a soft one. Bokuto suddenly can’t breathe when the man starts to speak and _holy shit_ _his_ voice—

There have to be rules in place that don’t allow voices like this to be heard in any public area. A voice like this can _only_ be heard in small, private places, where the words can be whispered in dim, curtain-drawn rooms and the universe can explode in the space between mouth and air. Pair that with eyes darker than a clear, sea floor, holding all the knowledge in the world under long eyelashes and thick frames, skin adorned with fine-lined birds of prey, and it’s a visual of an orchestral masterpiece.

But Bokuto has to _focus_ , because while he’s literally the most beautiful man Bokuto’s ever seen, he’s still a customer—and a customer asking a _question_ , come to that.

He catches himself just in time to see the man point to a collection of succulents.

‘I’m after an ornamental plant for my workspace and this one’s caught my eye,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to know its name? I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

Eyes landing on the plant in question, Bokuto’s mouth splits into a raw smile. It’s one of his favourites: a small, green-maroon mass of small, rose-like leaves sits in an off-white ceramic pot, right next to some campfire crassulas. Compared to them, it doesn’t look as impressive, but Bokuto knows of their beauty and the cute touch they can add to a room.

That’s all it takes for him to leap over some spotted orchids and carefully take that off-white ceramic pot, presenting it to the dark-haired man with a beam.

Second victory: his heart has stopped trying to escape his chest.

‘If you’re after ornamental, then this one’s definitely your guy!’ Bokuto tells him, eyes going between the tiny leaf heads and the man’s deep eyes. ‘Believe it or not, but this cutie’s called a sedum chocolate blob and they’re really easy to take care of. Super low maintenance, which the same can’t be said for the rest of its succulent cousins.’

The man blinks at him in mild astonishment, no doubt surprised that Bokuto’s striking up a conversation beyond greetings and farewells, but Bokuto’s latching onto the glint of intrigue that sharpens the blue of his irises with nothing short of desperation.

‘Chocolate blob…’ the man echoes. ‘That’s strangely fitting.’

‘Right?’ Bokuto tries not to linger on the long plane of the man’s nose or on the small tattoo peeking out from behind his ear, instead adding, ‘And the best part? It gets dark pink flowers during autumn! It’s a nice warm look for a cooler season, isn’t it?’

A contemplative look overtakes the man’s face, and Bokuto swears he can’t breathe anymore from the way the following kind—albeit tiny—smile rips the air right out of his body.

‘I’ll take it,’ is all he says, and Bokuto is sure stars are pulsing in excitement just from that.

He doesn’t know how he ends up at the counter, but the next thing he does know is he’s ringing up the plant and the man is holding out his card to pay. It hits him like a freight train that Konoha is sitting behind him somewhere and that he hasn’t asked the man the question he had set out to ask.

And before he can do anything about it, a cold feeling washes over him when Konoha aims a _hey!_ towards the man. 

‘Aki, don’t—’

‘Y’know, you sure come in here a lot,’ Konoha quips, completely ignoring Bokuto. ‘Not that we mind, but—’

‘What’s your name?’

Konoha lets out a violent snort. The man gapes at Bokuto. Bokuto thinks it’s time to get the shovel from the back and dig himself a proper hole where he stands.

Then a laugh reaches his ears and Bokuto feels like he’s flying. He stares as the man wraps long fingers around the pot and watches his lips form syllables, each one coming to him like a windblown dandelion seed. The man turns to leave, bowing briefly in Bokuto’s direction and sending him a whispered _see you next time, Bokuto-san_.

Bokuto’s fingers immediately find the edge of his apron, tracing the embroidered characters of his name as the shop bell dings. He vaguely registers Konoha laughing at him, but the thought of this man having taken note of _his_ name and actually calling him by it without looking down at his apron overtakes everything in him.

He grins.

Third victory: his name is Akaashi Keiji.

(The sedum chocolate blob in its ceramic pot is lowered gently onto a desk, right underneath a windowsill. Its green-maroon colour shines in the afternoon sunlight and Akaashi traces his fingers over a few heads that spill over the edge of the pot. He then picks up his pen, flips over a new page of his sketchbook, and spends the next few hours perfecting the rounded bottom of an upturned nose, high eyebrows and a broad smile, wondering what tattoo of his will grace the wrists belonging to dirt-streaked palms.)


End file.
